Teach me
by Johix
Summary: Who would resist to teach the great detective? And especially when it comes to seducing?


Two men were sitting in their shared room on Baker Street, one warming up his hands by a mug of hot tea, sipping it slowly, the other with eyes focused on the ceiling and knees under his chin, thinking. The winter had just reached its peak so the fireplace was burning and they both were feeling contentedly and snugly in their armchairs.

"John?" the tall man addressed the other.

"Hm?" the short one mumbled through his tea.

"Would you... teach me how to seduce someone?"

"Teach you _what_?" the medical man coughed as he accidently inhaled a bit of the tea by surprise, and laughed, because the question that Sherlock had just asked sounded really weird from a man like him and therefore amusingly to John's ears.

"You know," said the tall man, "I'd ask Iren Adler, but she is not exactly at hand so..."

"Sherlock I–" the doctor started, but was overpowered by the twitching in his mouth corners.

The detective, however, had not probably even heard him and went on: "So it's up to you I guess. I can't think about anyone else actually. (...) Can _you_ do it then?"

"I... I'm not quite sure... Where did you even get this idea?" the doctor asked with laughter upon his lips again.

"I think it doesn't matter," replied the tall man and gazed at his friend: "Can you or not?"

"Well it depends," John's tone suddenly became more serious when he met the silver eyes. "How do you exactly imagine the lesson?"

"Lessons," Holmes corrected him.

"Yeah, right, lessons. Obviously you'll need more time..." John made a mock of the tall man (but he ment no harm), "So?"

"Demonstrative," was a simple answer uttered with certainty of a scientist.

"Aha," the misle froze on John's face, "Hm – well..."

"I have learnt something from her already," said Sherlock with a faint smile upon his lips and cast his eyes down as he remembered the actions of that remarkable woman, "but only a very little."

"Really?" the short man wondered with interest. "What?"

At that Sherlock rose from his seat and his tall, thin figure made a few elegant steps towards John's armchair. There he bent his back and leaned to his flatmate. _"Please, John,"_ he said with a voice deep like a dark abyss and low like waters of a lake, which smoothly curled up into the doctor's very ear, _"teach me."_

Then he straightened up with dispassionate face as usual and looked down at his chosen mentor.

John pressed his lips together and blinked a few times. "Eh... um..." He had to clear his throat before continuing more intelligently: "Well, it was... good. Quite... um – good."

"Was it?" Sherlock asked and John thought he meant it sarcastically, but when he looked at him the detective's face had immediately changed his mind.

"Y-yes it was," he stuttered out. "You've really... _surprised_ me. But..."

"But?" Sherlock met his flatmate's eyes.

"I... um," The straightness of the thin man's gaze made John's words stuck in his throat, but he didn't want to throw away the chance to _actually_ instruct that man (for heaven's sake who would resist to tell Sherlock Holmes how to do something?) and he tried as much as he could to continue: "I think... that it could be better if..."

"Yes?"

"You know when you whisper something to someone – and it's because you want to seduce that person – it's a good detail to... to touch that person's ear with your lips. But it should be very slight – like you did not mean to do it. Is... is that clear to you?"

"Could you show it?"

"Heh – no," the doctor smiled and his eyes sparkled strangely, with something that could be possibly described as a mixture of bashfulness and amusement.

"Why?" the tall man asked.

But the doctor (who wasn't exactly sure how to reply) answered him with another question: "So it was not clear?"

"It was."

"Then why should I? You understand it and that's the point."

"Yes, that really is," said Holmes and gave his friend a solemn look. "But when a scientist wants to learn something, he _needs _to know the practical side of it so he could fully understand. I'm surprised you didn't get that. I need it and if you're not able to–"

"Fine," John cut the detective's lecture and stood up from his armchair. He approached the detective, who was still standing in front of his seat, and carefully titled his head up to him. Then quickly, with almost lighting speed, he moved towards Sherlock's ear, his words quick as the movement. "Do it like this," he said in a whisper and his lips slightly tickled the soft skin.

Sherlock made a mental note and John promptly pulled back from him.

"So," the short man mumbled and set back into his chair, "there. But if you'll ever do that," he said, taking a draught from his tea, "do it much more slowly, okay?"

"Okay."

. . .

Next day morning.

"And what's so important about this case that you had to wake me up?" John yawned and squeezed the tooth paste on his toothbrush.

"It's murder," Sherlock uttered enthusiastically.

"Mhm," the doctor acknowledged and spat out the foam. "But that's not so unusual, so why are you so cheerful?"

"It's triple," explained the detective with beaming face.

"Aha..." The short man gave his friend, who was standing in the now opened bathroom door, a nod of understanding and still drowsy he buried his head in a towel that was hanging on the wall next to the washbasin.

"And I'll be glad," the deep voice of Sherlock sounded "if you'd go with me, John."

But before Watson could say something to the effect that he's flattered but would like to get more sleep, suddenly there was a tickle on his right ear and words uttered quietly with most softness and even with ability to send a tiny shiver down John's spine: _"Would you?"_

The short man pressed his nose into the towel and lowered his brows at a sudden, unclear thought that flashed through his mind. He felt the detective had stepped backwards, so he unstuck his face from the towel and turned to meet the silver eyes.

At the sight of the doctor's face Sherlock smirked with satisfaction – it seemed he had learnt well.

"Good," the doctor nodded his head and licked his lips from inside. "Very."

"Thank you," said the detective and leaved his flatmate in the bathroom at once.

. . .

"You haven't told me they were triples," said John, who was now standing over three dead men who looked just the same.

"No," said Sherlock and tore off a button from one of the man's shirt, exactly as he did that with the other ones. "But I've told you the murder's triple."

"Yeah. And the fact their heads are cut off you've just somehow forgotten."

"John,"

"I'm not saying anything. Only I wouldn't probably have the breakfast if I knew it."

. . .

After a day spent with collecting information that could help to put all the pieces of puzzle together, the two men were sitting again in their living room. Well, Watson was sitting. Holmes was sort of meditating in his armchair.

"Tomorrow I need to go to that factory..." he said and ended the silence which was stretching between them for a long while. He was referring to a factory where knives as the one which cut the three heads off were made. They had not found it at the crime scene, but at a glance he knew the blade had to be very fine and from the way it went through the cervical vertebrae it was clearly also sharp and very resilient. So he asked here and there and find out some useful things.

John did not reply, because when the detective was in his current state he talked rather to himself then to his companion.

"You'll go with me."

"No, Sherlock. I'm going to work – I have patients."

"Ah," the detective's voice sounded disappointedly, "Fine."

. . .

"Next," the doctor called from behind his desk, hoping they'd hear him in the waiting room (not that he was so lazy to stand up and tell another person to come in, but right now he needed to add something into the previous patient's folder).

"Hello, doctor," sounded a deep voice which could belong to only one being in John's life.

"Sherlock," the medical man looked up and saw his flatmate, "what are you doing here?"

"I'm here to tell you to not get frightened when you get back home today."

"What?" John frowned in confusion.

"I consider it as a politeness. I'd explain, but there's a lot of people back there," the detective said and pointed his bony finger to the closed door behind which the waiting room was.

"No," the short man, who knew his friend very well to know he did not care about people in most time, gave him a sharp look. "You just _don't _want to explain it. You want me to be taut and have a heart attack when I see what you've done to our flat."

"It would not be so bad."

John raised his eyebrow in disbelief.

"I promise," said the tall man with firm voice.

The doctor did not believe him. But what can I do? he told himself and sighed "Fine."

Sherlock gave him a quick, faint smile and vanished.

. . .

"Oh no. Please no. No..." was pouring out from John's mouth as he entered the flat and saw the first badly wiped bloodstain on the floor. He miserably went to the living room. "Sherlock what–?" but he paused himself as his eyes rested on a pig head on the kitchen table. And as he had soon found out there was second in the sink, third in the fridge and fourth in the detective's hands.

John stood there for a moment with hand flat across his face, then put it down to his side and with raised eyebrows and pressed lips he looked at Sherlock.

"Those will help me solve the case," said the detective with tiny twitch in his mouth corner.

"Yeah," the doctor uttered and looked away from that one in his flatmate's hands. "I see..."

"No, you don't," the tall man disagreed and with a small flame of the scientific enthusiasm in his eyes he went on: "It's because–"

"Sherlock," John interrupted him with pale face. "Trust me," he gulped, "I'd be very happy to... to listen to your findings or presumptions or deductions or whatever you just want to say to me now, because I find it rather amazing that brain of yours, but I cannot. The heads... I mean they do not really make me feel well."

"Ah," the detective glanced around at his four darlings. "Sorry."

"No, it's... I just go to my bedroom now. Just – just clean it up when you finish, okay?"

"Okay."

. . .

3:18 AM

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair straight as a ramrod, with clenched fists, his look fixed on his knees, and teeth firmly pressed together.

Once again, he thought and tried to not to hear the crys which were heared from upstairs – from his flatmate's bedroom. Once again and I'll go there.

_Nnh! _John sprung up on his bed with cold sweat all over his body. The sheet was yanked out from its place and the duvet kicked off to the end of the bad. He looked at his hands – they were shaking. He clenched them and put the left one across his mouth, shutting his eyes tightly. Then he let a sound which reminded a painful gasp be scrambled out through his throat, and then, after a futile effort (which took about an hour and a half) of trying to fall asleep again, he got up.

"Jesus Christ!" he cried out when – by his entrance into the living room – the detective switched on the lamp next to his seat. "Sherlock," he breathed out, "you've scared me."

The detective said nothing first, only looked at his flatmate thoroughly with frowning brows. "What happened?" he said at last.

"Nothing, just..." the short man rubbed his eyes, "Just a dream."

"Hm," the detective uttered and titled his head to the side in disbelief.

"It was _not_ a very nice dream," the doctor explained with a bitter smile upon his lips.

Sherlock watched him for a moment and then said quietly: "I'm sorry, John."

"No, it..." Watson looked at his friend and with weary eyes and a faint smile he asked: "Have you solved the case yet?"

. . .

"Uhmm..." the short man opened his eyes and stretched out. He was lying on the sofa – he had to get off there.

"Morning," a well known voice greeted him.

"Morning," he replied drowsily and set up.

"Here," the detective handed him a mug.

John glanced at it surprisedly and run his hand through his messy hair. "What's in there?" he asked.

"Coffee."

"Ah, thanks," he said and took it. "Wait," he stopped himself from taking a draught, "non-poisoned I hope?"

"Yes," the thin man gave him a nod.

"Good."

. . .

"So the little... experiment of yours – has it helped?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"I do know the murder weapon now. Or at least that it was made by _that_ company. You see I'd not occupied myself with such rubbish as finding who had made the murder weapon, but in this case it seriously relates to the crime act... And one of two daughters of the company's owner has really caught my attention."

"Oh, she's pretty?" the short man asked with interest.

"She's fifty eight," answered him the detective.

John suppressed the laugh. "So older women then," he managed to utter before bursting out.

Sherlock had no choice but laugh to – that's what John was doing him (to his heart...).

"No-o," he cut the gaiety. "I mean I think she could have done it. I know it. It's the only explanation."

"Aha," the doctor was fighting the final pieces of his laughter, "right."

"All I have to do now is to look into her closet."

"What?"

"Well..." the detective gave his friend a look and theatrically put his fingertips together, "I have my methods," he smirked.

"Yeah," John grinned, "I know – I know that."

"...Tell me," Sherlock's voice was solemn all at once.

"Yes?" John's laught was now gone and he lowered his brows a bit.

"The dream you had last night, it was a recall from the war, wasn't it?"

The doctor did not hesitate in answering, but yet his voice was quite and slightly shaken when he said: "Yes."

"It..." the detective uttered and looked straight at his flatmate, "was my fault." He did not put that as a question, but the look in his eyes was telling John he was not sure about any word in that sentence.

"No," he said resolutely, "it was not, Sherlock."

"But I–" protested the detective, glancing away from John.

"Just no more pig heads, okay?" the doctor rose from the sofa and went to the bathroom.

"...Ya," said Holmes and as he watched the man, who he mostly (as much as the limited heart of his let him) cared about, crossing the room, he though: _Never._

. . .

"And why did she kill all three?" wondered the doctor when the detective had come to present him his results again into the office.

"She wasn't sure which one of them it was," Sherlock answered and took John's stethoscope from the desk.

"Ugh, that's – give it back, Sherlock."

The thin man laid the stethoscope back to its place and continued in his speech: "But when I told her that essentially they were all with her and all cheated on her – with their wives obviously –, only switching when some of them needed to be somewhere else, she didn't seem she regretted it at all."

"Well, women can be very rough in deed."

"...John?"

"Yeah?"

"What is the best way to let someone know you... eh," he wanted to continue without saying it, but could not find any other word then:"_like_ them?"

"Huh?"

"You've said you'd teach me."

"Oh, of course! I've completely forgotten..." he quickly remembered. "So how to let someone to know you're attracted to them, right?"

The detective nodded.

"Simply," the short man said. "Touch them."

"What?" the detective seemed more surprised than he had ever shown. "Just tap someone's shoulder and that's it? I don't think it works that way, John."

"Of course it doesn't – the way _you_ describe it," he smirked at his flatmate. "The touch has to be... special and if not for that person at least for you. You have–" John thought about how he could or should say that, but then told himself Sherlock's like a child at these things so why not? And continued: "heard about the butterflies in stomach, yeah?"

"A result of the release of adrenaline in the acute stress response, which causes increased heart rate and blood pressure, consequently sending more blood to the muscles. Yeah I know that," confirmed the tall man.

"Well," John smiled, "that's the important thing about it. You see you can touch someone casually _or_ in a special way. And then even a casual touch as a tap on shoulder could be the butterflies–in–stomach feeling. It depends on you."

"Aha. I think I understand it. Can you think of any demonstration?"

"I'm not quite sure, it's – put that stethoscope down at once!" he growled at Sherlock who had some insatiable desire of playing with it. "Or you know what? Actually it's not such a bad idea," the doctor thought out loud. "Give it to me and sit there."

The detective's brows went up, yet he said nothing but 'okay' and did as John asked.

"So," the short man looked down at him and put the stethoscope on. "I need you to open your shirt now."

The detective's nimble fingers flickered under his chin and in no time the first four buttons were undone.

John looked at him and then reached out his hand to undo the fifth one. "Perfect," he said and started to explain his upcoming demonstration: "You see," he said, "I'm a doctor and as a doctor I often have to touch people in a way that could be sometimes considered as something I've spoken about – the special way. But it is not – it's the casual way. As so..." he put the stethoscope into his ears and bent over to Sherlock, touching his chest by its chilly head.

_Td – td – td _he could hear Sherlock's heart – he _actually_ had some. But it wasn't right. The beats were too fast. "Sherlock, you're okay?" he asked him apprehensively as he pulled back.

"I... I don't exactly know," answered the detective with eyes fixed on the floor. "That always happens when..."

"When?" the doctor wondered. " When what?"

The tall man looked up at his friend: "John–"

But the words that could maybe lead to something very interesting were sharply cut by the opening door through which a woman, wearing a white coat, came in. "John, is everything alright? There's eight people waiting and you haven't seen anyone for about an hour, so what–?" and then she finally used her eyes and saw the doctor standing with a stethoscope over another man with unbuttoned shirt as they both stare at her in obvious surprise. "Ah, it's you Mr. Holmes," she recognized the other one.

"Mrs. Sawyer," replied the thin man coldly.

"Sarah, I–"But John's mouth closed up as quickly as it opened.

"Are you ill, Mr. Holmes?" the woman addressed the detective.

"No."

"Or do you have any pain then?"

"No."

"Well, that people in there are and do. So please, go somewhere else and let John work."

Sherlock's mouth corner twisted up painfully as he gave her the recognition and without any other word he took on his coat, hid the still undone buttons by his scarf and left...

"What happened here?" Sarah turned to John when Sherlock was already gone.

"I..." he looked at her, "I'm not quite sure... But would you mind if I take a day off tomorrow?

. . .

Sherlock Holmes was sitting in his armchair – smoking.

And John allowed it from some reason.

They did not speak that evening.

. . .

But things were about to change this morning.

"Sherlock?" said one man, who was sitting in his armchair, to his flatmate, who seated himself in a safe distance on the sofa, wrapped in his blue, silk dressing gown.

An indistinct 'hm?' was heard from the other man.

"I... I'd like to speak to you. I need to tell you something."

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Then what is it?"

"Could you at least look at me?"

The detective looked up and John was frozen to the spot by his eyes. They were... sad. The usual sharpness and gleam were far gone and the silver was not pure anymore. "Yes?" he said with a voice that not belonged to him.

The short man bounced back, exhaled and rubbed his forehead covered with winkles which increased in number especially after he had met this peculiar man. "It is not very easy for me," John started at once, "so please remember it before you'd interrupt me. You should know, and I want – I need you to know that I have some..." he lowered his brows, "feelings that... Nghh, it's all so unclear and... strange, because–"

"John," the detective's voice sounded feebly, "yesterday at the office... did you... have the feeling of–?"

"The butterflies?" a faint smile appeared on the short man's face (he meant it more like a bitter joke, then a serious question).

But Sherlock took it as a proper thing and gave him a nod.

John held his breath. Okay – fine, he told himself. "...I did," he confessed and risked a glance at Sherlock.

"Me too," the thin man said in a low voice. "Like many times before."

"...What?"

"It _wasn't_ the first time, John. If you'd have the stethoscope on my chest each time you'd by left deaf by now because of that god-damned beating," the detective spat restlessly and turned his look away.

"Sherlock, I–"

"And I thought," he continued in calmer tone, "that you should know that. Because," he clenched his right hand, "I know I simply could not continue in living with you, sticking around, knowing than you don't feel the same due to your attraction to women, yet not being able to give up on you – it would just kill me."

The doctor remained silent for a long while, but then he said with a firm voice: "I don't care."

"What?"

"That you are a man."

"You..." the detective lowered his eyebrows a little and looked inquiringly at his flatmate, "don't?"

"No," he shook his head, then stood up and crossed the room to the detective. "The only thing I care about is that it's you..."

A million of butterflies fluttered their wings in Sherlock's stomach as John had leaned towards him and gently – carefully – had touched his lips by his own.

The tall man breathed out hotly and with deep relief into his flatmate's parted lips which were still terribly close to his mouth.

John smiled and looked into the now silver sparkling eyes of his flatmate: "You, Sherlock..."


End file.
